by Judith Mehl
“Well, what did you expect?”
Chief Detective Richard Burrows snapped open the menu one more time, then lowered it to give Kat the evil eye. “I overheard that new cop talking up the best burger he’s ever had. He got it here last week.”
“You mean that stud muffin, Brady what’s his name?”
“Yeah, Brady Ramsey. And quit calling him a stud muffin.”
“Well, take another look. He’s vegan.”
“I don’t care what his religion is. I just expected some beef.”
Kat shook her head in defeat. Officer Brady was a love. He was new to the force and the town. His experience was limited, and he was working with other detectives, not the two assigned to the deaths of her friends. Detective Hill was working to find the connection that tied those murders together, something other than vague associations in an herb farm and herb shop.
She knew the men and their teams had searched both locations thoroughly. She knew one person who could bring the two cases together. Agatha Hartman. She was sure of it. The cops weren’t. Kat didn’t have the ribbon that tied it all up, but she knew Agatha was in danger and it had something to do with the death of the other two. She just needed to convince the chief detective of it. Right now he was distracted by the monumental task of ordering breakfast from a menu that didn’t have meat. She’d wait.
Burrows signaled the server for some coffee, than blanched. “Please tell me they have real coffee.”
“Yes, they have real coffee. Even with real cream, for you non vegan types.”
“Well, I’ll need real coffee to wash down an eggless omelette. Ugh. My stomach belches at the thought of a tofu omelette with . . .” He quoted from the menu. “Seared asparagus, red bell peppers and a field of greens with lemon.”
“Don’t get me started. Just because this place is vegan doesn’t mean you can’t get a good meal.”
When the server came with the coffee, the detective gave her his sweetest smile. “Thank you. I understand you have some real cream for us non vegan types.”
She nodded and handed him some packets from her pocket. “I just knew you’d ask.”
Kat blinked and covered her face with the menu. Best to stay out of this one.
“Well, then, honey,” the detective said, still smiling. “Would you happen to have some real meat to go with that?”
Claudette, as her name tag read, answered just as honeyed. “Why, sir. I’ll check and see if there’s any road kill out back in the alley.”
The detective swung his arms in the air and surrendered. “Okay. Ya got me. I just love my beef.”
She eyed his paunch and said, “I’ll bet you do. How bout I bring you the breakfast burger? The cops at the local station love it all times of day.”
He didn’t let on he was a cop and Kat didn’t either, but her smile widened. Even though she already knew what she wanted to order she changed pages and appeared to be reading each selection, as if making the most important decision of a lifetime. Meanwhile, she used her time to think up an opening gambit to seek what Burrows knew about the murder of her friends. Just maybe, this time, she’d avoid all ploys and shoot straight. That might surprise him enough that she’d find out all the facts.
Her mind came back to the restaurant in time to hear Burrows end his discussion with Claudette over the ingredients of his breakfast burger.
“Thank you. I will anxiously await the wonders of your chef.”
Kat couldn’t hide her snicker this time. She tried to stifle it by giving her order. “I’ll have the tomato bagel, Claudette, and more coffee. Thank you.”
Burrows inhaled the aroma of his coffee, grinned, and swallowed his first gulp. “Aah, at least the coffee hits the spot. What information are you looking for, Katharine?”
Now, he had her off guard. Should she just go for it?
“You know I want you to find the killer of Agatha’s two friends. I’m also worried about Agatha. There’s no reason for you to put her into protective custody, except that we all think she’s in danger.”
“There’s not much we have for sure. Yet. You know I can’t share everything with you. What we have is a lot of searching. For clues, for relatives of the deceased, for connections. All on speculation.”
“There has to be something I can do to help!”
“Katharine, you are not the police. We appreciate your help with the handwriting, and with the herbal meanings. But for the rest, please stay out.”
Not quite ready to give up, Kat made a gentle motion in the air. Their server came immediately. “Something else?”
“More coffee, please.”
A few seconds later it arrived with their food. “Thanks so much, Claudette.”
“Kind of familiar with the waitress, aren’t you?”
“She’s been my server many times.”
He managed a very puzzled look before he said, “I thought she was our waitress.”
“They’re not waitresses any more. They are servers—male, female, doesn’t matter—they’re all servers now.”
“Oh well, waitress, server. I guess she already had my number when she pointed to my ample stomach.”
He leaned over his mug and stared at Kat.
She blinked, then said. “Can I pick your brain now?”
“Nothing probably in there now but mush. No protein, no . . . .
“Wait a minute, your breakfast will have more protein than sausage and eggs.”
“Kat, you know we’re are doing the normal exploration for leads. We’re trying to protect the herb shop and its employees.” He sipped his coffee. “The details aren’t your business, but we’ve also checked out irate customers. We’ve done extensive background searches on some of the possible ones and found nothing out of place. There are more interviews to come. Our men have canvassed the neighborhood by each woman’s home to search for any unusual activity. We are on this.”
They ate in silence for a while, then Kat decided to give Burrows everything she had. Maybe it would trigger something new from him, or help him find something new.
“You know we’ve been reviewing a lot of information, too. “I’ve studied everything I could through handwriting from the notes themselves. I can tell you a lot about the possible suspects from their writing samples that we gathered any way we could.”
He looked interested while he chewed.
“By talking with Agatha and trying to trigger her memory we learned some information about the killer from the wording of the notes. We also have all the information we could find on the three bouquets. All of this can provide some direction. I gave a condensed version of this to Detective Hill, but you’re more familiar with my concepts of handwriting analysis.”
He chewed some more, seemingly content with his non-meat burger. Then he set down the fork. “Now, give me what else you have.”
She gave it to him. There were endless notes and she knew he needed just a briefing. The notes in her voluminous pocketbook were backup. She capsulized everything from the analysis information first. It often revealed a surprisingly accurate profile of the person—in this case, she hoped it was the killer. With this profile, they could narrow the image.
She started. “The person can be violent. That may sound strange if we’re describing a killer. The writing substantiates the intense hostility that can erupt.”
She also mentioned another version of a similar point revealed in a different note. “He hides brutality and possible sadistic tendencies and can be cruel when crossed. He’s scary.”
Burrows nodded and chewed.
She began to list a few other characteristics, then realized she almost said “he” again.
“Since we know the boy who delivered the bouquet to Rosalin’s house is positive the person who gave it to him was male, I’ll just continue using ‘him’ until we know otherwise. We don’t, do we?”
Burrows managed to take another bite before he realized she was waiting for an answer. She could see a flicker of indecision in his eyes. Then a sli
ght shake sideways. Looked like that was the best answer she would get. With Burrows, Kat accepted any crumb.
She listed the rest. “He has a low opinion of others. Yet he needs to be noticed so he craves attention. This can exhibit itself in paranoia, insecurity, fragile ego.”
The detective pulled his dog-eared notepad towards him again and began to make notes. Kat realized that she needed to hone her upside down writing if she was to learn anything that way. Of course, his chicken scratching could be part of the problem. Without looking up he made a circular motion with the pen, signaling her to keep going.
Kat added, “He probably whines and gripes. Could be a manifestation of any of his other problems. Strangely, he shows some signs of preplanning.”
The detective tilted his head and widened his eyes, as if to ask, “Is that all?”
Kat had plenty more. She knew there wasn’t much tit-for-tat going on. She inserted a question of her own. “Did you ever find a delivery person for Margaret’s bouquet?”
He shook his head vehemently as he wiped his fingers on a napkin. “No one.”
“There are so many people around that place during the day time. It’s difficult to believe they saw nothing.”
“Which is why we think the person came at night.”
Kat pulled out her notes. “That fits in what I had here. I didn’t just analyze the handwriting. I checked with Agatha on the meaning of the notes. From the wording itself, we concluded that the person is someone dangerous, possibly unstrung, from Margaret’s past. He also had to know Agatha. We couldn’t figure out where Rosalin fit in. He was jealous of her for some reason.”
Burrows eyed the standup card splashed with luscious desserts.
Kat knocked on his arm. “Did you hear what I said?”
He nodded and looked at her. “Just checking. Too early for dessert, anyway.”
Since it had just turned 8:30 a.m., even Kat had to agree. As she tucked her notebook back in her bag, Burrows said, “We tend to agree with you about this person from Margaret’s past. And it had to be someone who knew her well. Or was able to research her current situation. Agatha and the herb crew are there often. It’s suspicious that the killer picked a day, or apparently evening, when Agatha was out of town and the crew had gone home.”
The situation was too serious for Kat to break out in a real smile. The picture that was forming, though quite blurry still, lightened the dark cloud around her these days. It helped, too, to know the police were piecing things together.
Looking around she realized the place was getting crowded. She paid the bill, waving him away when he pulled out his wallet. “You can get it next time. I’m still not finished with your brain.”
He motioned her across the street to a park bench. The chill from early morning had melted under the bright sun, heralding a great, hot, summer day.
Pointing to her ankle, he said, “Katharine, did the doctor release you from all restrictions?”
Kat mumbled a muffled, “Uh hmmm.”
He looked her straight in the eyes and said, “When did he say you could ditch the cane?”
She swiveled her head to the left. “I’ve been off it a few days now. The ankle works fine.”
He nodded, and headed for the bench. “So when do you see the doctor to tell him you dumped all restrictions on your own?”
Kat smiled and stepped forward to the bench and sat. When he didn’t seem forthcoming with more information, Kat decided to tempt him with more of her own.
“The sisters, excuse me, Lizzie Ort and Delia O'Neary, spent hours analyzing the meaning in the bouquets, as well as their toxic potential. We called you with the most significant one.”
“You mean the venom of foxglove?”
“Right.”
She continued. “We checked everything from the hothouse ones to the wildflowers. Some were poisonous by touch, or from ingestion like the foxglove.”
“When the tox report comes in, we can compare what we found to her prescription and to the plant,” he said. “It’s just starting to bud around here. From the photo, it looked in full bloom.”
She realized he was already on the correct path. “The sisters called every small florist. None reported making up any of the bouquets.”
He confirmed that his men had checked with the larger florists and found nothing.
Kat added, Then whoever did, had they own greenhouse.”
Burrows whipped out his pad and made note of that. “You sure? Why a greenhouse?”
“Because some, like the foxglove, were in bloom prior to their time. They had to have been grown indoors early.”
“So? Your conclusion?”
Kat frowned. “It appears the flowers were only warnings.”
“From what you told us earlier, we figured the same. Something to accompany the notes with their own warnings.”
Kat stood. “And that leaves us where?”
It leaves you to go to work. I have to get back to the office. My men are pursuing further leads.
He finally offered her a carrot. “They are looking for a relative, or old acquaintance. Someone who could possibly fit the description you just gave us. Thanks, by the way, and for the info you gave us from the old herb farm worker.”
“You’re welcome.” Kat looked indignant. He wasn’t sure if it was the hands on her hips or the squint in her eyes. “You didn’t even take one note on the personality profile.”
“I take notes when I want to check something.”
He pulled out his little pocket recorder. “When I need it all, I record.”
This time he had a full-out smirk. She swiveled around with her back to him, and left.
Chapter 23
A highly irregular writing rhythm is only one aspect of an unpredictable temperament, but is an extremely important graphic expression. It is rhythm that gives us the leading clue as to basic substance of personality.
Today proved to be Chandler’s lucky day. He didn’t think that woman saw him climb into the passenger side of the Ford Expedition. When he spoke to his driver, no smile infiltrated his angry voice; no attempt was made to sugar coat his words.
“Damn these back-to-earth naive women. They’re so stupid they don’t even know when they’re under attack.”
The driver mumbled deferentially and put the King Ranch SUV in gear.
“I swear they don’t even know where that Hartman woman is. And it doesn’t look like anyone is running the store in her place, unless it’s that cheery broad at the counter. What a way to run a business,” he shouted as he turned his head and stared at Akins like he would have an answer.
Akins signaled his return into traffic and swung his ponytailed black hair sideways trying to see his way clear. This time he didn’t comment at all.
Chandler kept raving, swinging into his next beef before he’d finished the first as Akins drove on.
“That Earl Briggs,” Chandler whined. “He hasn’t reported back on the fire at Jones’ farm.”
Akins ventured a comment in the silence that followed. “Thought he was supposed to scope out the herb farm. Find a good place to light one?”
“That too. We wanted Jones done first. The herb farm is too hot right now.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Hey, hey. Hot. Got it?”
Chandler went right on spouting off, not waiting for a response. “That measly firebug better have gotten the job done. I swear he’s nothing but a tattoo addict. Can’t do nothing right except stick himself.”
They turned off onto the unpaved road leading to the ranch they purchased for their headquarters. It hid their comings and goings, their plotting, and crimes. Harrison Smiley Chandler spent as little time there as possible. It lacked the luxury he craved.
“Tonight we need to regroup and find out what happened to Briggs,” he said as Jerry Akins let him out at the front door and pulled around behind the building.
Chandler entered with a heavy stride. With any luck the others were already there. They could get this over w
ith and he could catch some sleep. Eastwood better be here. He was scum, but handy. Who in their right mind would name their child Eastwood, anyway? No wonder he was rotten to the core. Probably figured he had a reputation to live up to.
The room stunk of cooking grease. Not from these guys’ cooking. It reeked from years past when the first settlers came. Chandler saw that Earl hadn’t showed up yet. Too bad. More work for each of them and no extra pay. Eastwood jerked his way around the kitchen, stopping at each window like he had nothing better to do except peer out through the broken shutters. Chandler settled into the only functioning chair.
Chandler yanked on Eastwood’s torn doublet as he walked by. “Knock it off. You guys done anything to find Earl?”
Eastwood snarled, “Yep, we looked under all the big rocks.”
Chandler kicked him in the shin without getting out of the chair. “Tell me you at least looked in town and over at the herb farm.”
“You said don’t go near the place.” Eastwood shrugged and plopped into the wooden chair with the broken seat.
Chandler lost his temper and grabbed a beer out of the fridge. He slammed the door twice to get it to shut. It barely held together. His anger built, and it didn’t take long to spout off.
“This resort development will be the richest in ten counties. Setting it up in this backwoods was a big mistake.”
Akins nodded.
Chandler shook his head and wrenched the top off the beer bottle. “What a mess. Can’t a few old farmers settle for a fair price? No, they have to force us to burn them out. Soon, we’re gonna get caught. And where’s that damn Briggs?”
Nobody answered.
“Eastwood, get your ass out the door. Start huntin’ for Briggs. And for crissakes, don’t go crawlin’ around that plant place.”
Akins scoffed. “All that healthy stuff, with your luck you’d probably find only the poison ivy!”
Chandler batted Akins on the head. “And you get your butt out to that shop and see if you can follow missy goody-too-shoes. She’s got to be hiding that Hartford woman.”
“What you want me to do with her?”
“Nothin’. Don’t let her see you, you dimwit.”